A small pickup pulled alongside me. The cab was old and faded; it appeared to have been painted gray once, the sort of truck you see abandoned in a country field. I was walking down a dreary stretch of the Montclare neighborhood, up in the 6600 block of Diversey. It was raining. I was late to meet Walter Brzeski.
Brzeski writes the Tribune a lot. Walter writes every newspaper a lot. A couple of months ago we asked readers to send us their nominations for the best french fry in Chicago, then we would taste them and choose our favorite. Brzeski, unable to resist such an invitation, wrote us. We received hundreds of votes for scores of favorites — but with the exception of a handful of restaurants that seemed to benefit from write-in campaigns, few places received more than one vote. Which means: No. 1, Chicago lacks a dominant fry, and No. 2, French fries are personal.
The snow flakes of food. At a glance, all alike.
Then you catch one.
Anyway, that’s how I ended up with this truck beside me and Brzeski leaning across the passenger seat: “You the fry guy?”
Brzeski is a large man, imposing and bald, a Chicago schoolteacher with disarming directness. He explained he has a burp test — if you burp the next day and still taste the flavor, hold that cuisine close to your heart. Walter burps a lot after eating the fries at Mr. D’s Shish-Kabobs (6656 W. Diversey Ave.; 773-637-0042), his nominee for the best french fry in Chicago. His was not the only vote for Mr. D’s. I walked in and noticed — nothing. Mr. D’s, which has been open 35 years, has yet to add any decorative touches. It is a white block, across from a machine shop, beside a home sided in blue vinyl.
Inside, owner Mike Antonopoulos and son stand behind the counter and quietly take your order. There’s no music, no television. Their fries, which are fried twice (as God intended), are made from extra long potatoes, which Antonopoulos slices off lengthwise, and leaves long, giving you fewer but heartier fries. As for the oil — it’s a half-and-half mix of vegetable oil and fat, which delivers a slightly beefy taste without drowning the mellow tater. Fries arrive on a paper boat in immense strips. Outer crunch to inner puff ratio is NASA precise — golden firm outside, just hot and pillowy enough inside. And hard to stop eating.
“This is one of those places that’s like a myth,” Brzeski said. “It’s a hole in the wall. They never even look like they’re open.”
Which is exactly what we were looking for — surprises. The idea was to let readers guide us, cull through suggestions, avoid the usual suspects, sample the fries at a number of joints that don’t get quite as much attention, and meet a few of our french-fry nominators. Please, of course — this is not a scientific way of judging the best fries in Chicago. It’s not even coherent, really.
But we wanted passion.
“Now those are french fries, right?” Brzeski said as he watched me swoon at the first bite.
“Now those are french fries” — I heard this from counter help, who rarely dropped a sack of sticks before me without some measure of pride. I heard from every reader I met with. And I heard this from myself — “Holy poop, those are fries,” I blurted through a mouthful. Indeed, I said that at Mr. D’s.
Brzeski nodded. “I would not steer you wrong about french fries, my friend.”
He was right — Mr. D’s has the best french fries in Chicago.
Which is exactly what I thought until I tasted the fries at Five Guys Burgers and Fries in Lincoln Park (2140 N. Clybourn Ave.; 773-327-5953), a Virginia-based chain that moved into Chicago last year. Here, I met Katie Feltz, one of three readers who nominated Five Guys. Feltz is an ideal person to eat a fry with. She is six months’ pregnant, and therefore not shy about noshing. She has traveled and can talk about the proper mayonnaise for a Belgian frite or the remarkable curry chips of Ireland. And she is discriminating. She has waited in line outside Hot Doug’s (eight votes) for duck-fat fries, and she’s not doing it again: “That’s more than this girl can handle,” she said. (Besides, duck-fat fries are so 2008 — consider the fine beef-tallow fries at Sweets & Savories in Lincoln Park, a throw-back to the old McDonald’s recipe, only crispier, and arranged like tower of fried tendrils.)
“Don’t you think,” I said, “that if there was no more food left on earth and we only had french fries, the human race could get by for a few years without many complaints.” Feltz sliced open the Five Guys bag and let the mound of spuds spill on the table.
“Like there’s a supervirus or something and everyone’s dead? Yeah, yeah — yeah, definitely, possibly.”
Surrounding us were potato sacks, cases of peanut oil. Feltz pointed to a sign: “Today’s Potatoes Are From: Rexburg, Idaho.” She held up a fry, slender, irregular, a bit darker and crispier than an average fry — “That’s a legit fry. You know there’s a spud there, and it’s firm without being a fried shell. It’s properly salted. You really don’t need to put ketchup on these to enjoy them.”
She took a bite and stared at the broken potato stick. “Now, see — I imagine living on a farm with a pile of potatoes at the ready and a fresh batch of fries going at all times, and I bet it would be exactly like this.”
She was right: These were the best in Chicago.
Until I drove in to Gene & Jude’s (2720 N. River Rd.; 708-452-7634) in River Grove.
I was here on the advice of Anthony Ward, 59, who says he has been a fan since the 1960s. G & J’s has been around since 1946. The day I went, there was no line, no crowd — which is an anomaly. G & J’s has the look of an old diner minus a place to sit down, with the sort of gigantic parking lot that encourages long summer nights of (first-rate) hot dogs and loitering. The fries are lightly salted, a little soggy — grab one and a clump of kin hitch along for the ride. But of all the fries I had, these tasted, even felt, the truest, the richest; I especially loved the sack they come in, soaked through with grease before you get a chance to sample.
This, Ward assured, is the way a fry should be — “You need a bit of grease to set off the taste.” Having driven here directly from The Bagel Restaurant and Deli (3107 N. Broadway; 773-477-0300) in Lakeview — “golden and fluffy,” wrote reader Henry Webster — I knew what Ward meant. The Bagel’s fries are battered, tasty, but a touch mealy, the grease still lingering on the surface of the batter; at G & J’s, the potato is so fresh, its moisture seems to absorb a lot of the grease, without losing a light crust.
I ordered a hot dog. It came smothered in a hot mess of fries.
“Listen, this is what you do,” Ward said with the exactness of a man who defuses bombs. “You got stray fries? Tuck them beneath the dog. Squeeze tight. Hot dog will stick to fry, mustard and onion will mesh. Get it all in one bite, and — oh, man!”
As fry anthropology goes, a few patterns and common habits emerged with readers. Two told me they loved the fry they nominated, but their close second was eating a Wendy’s fry after dipping it in a Wendy’s Frosty. Many have been seduced by the siren of tony truffle fries. But many more said that they know a fry is perfect when it requires no topping, condiment or truffle.
Also, soggy bothers them. But grease only bothers when it intrudes on flavor — Feltz describes Five Guys as “a pleasant surprise in a greasy brown bag.” (I showed her a picture of the greasy sack at Gene & Jude’s. She sighed.) I spoke with a number of readers and a surprising number, without being asked, said they looked for fresh-cut potatoes over frozen. And they knew their history — or rather, one reader argued that because the fry was introduced to this country via soldiers who returned home from World War I, and that the Belgian fry is wispy and crisp, it makes sense more people prefer thin and crunchy to big and pillowy.
Strangely, not one mentioned McDonald’s.
I have a theory on this — I checked out Rosie’s Drive-In in Oak Lawn (10235 S. Cicero Ave.; 708-636-7717) and Pop’s Italian Beef (10337 S. Kedzie Ave.; 773-239-1243), only a few miles away. Both received a few votes. Both have near identical fries, shoestrings, fried in vegetable oil. And both feel like McDonald’s-style fries — indeed, at Pop’s, owner Jim Bachelder told me: “They are McDonald’s fries! Those guys turn back boxes all the time that are fine, and our distributor passes them along to us.”
Pop’s arrive frozen, but truly, none of the fries disappointed. My least favorite — the somewhat personality-free spuds at Stash’s (610 Central Ave., Highland Park; 847-432-6550), sold as “The North Shore’s Best Fries” — were way better than most.
My favorite?
No. 1: Five Guys
No. 2: Mr. D’s
No. 3: Gene & Jude’s
But let’s give an honorable mention to Deko’s Restaurant (7445 Madison Ave.; 708-366-0992) in Forest Park. Here I met Daniel Lauber, a city planning consultant. He looks a little like Harold Ramis. “Easy place to miss,” he said as I walked in. He edged me toward the counter. “Hand-cut fries,” he said. “Always make sure you order ‘hand-cut.'” Lauber is a tad pushy, but pleasantly so. I ordered hand-cut fries and the man behind the counter, owner Mario Carriri, reached beneath and pulled out a potato and held it up, like a starchy trophy. He hacked. Lauber watched with expectant eyes. “The regular fries — not great.”
Carriri sliced.
“But those,” Lauber says, his eyes never leaving the spud, “those are french fries.”
– – –
AND THE FAVORITES ARE …
1. Five Guys Burgers and Fries
2140 N. Clybourn Ave.
Nominated by Katie Feltz
2. Mr. D’s Shish-Kabobs
6656 W. Diversey Ave.
Nominated by Walter Brzeski
3. Gene & Jude’s
2720 N. River Rd. in River Grove
Nominated by Anthony Ward
– – –
Fries that fell outside our parameters
Trust me: You wish you had been here for the Great French Fry Debate. Which went like this:
“What do we do about fries that readers nominate made with truffle oil? Sweet-potato fries?”
“We pool them all, name the best.”
“Can’t — truffle oil is a secret weapon.”
“But a great fry stands alone, regardless of accouterments.”
“You’re an idiot.”
And on and on. Which is how we arrived at this quick melange of reader-nominated disparate fries that we, too, recommend:
Best sweet-potato fries: Small Bar, 2049 W. Division St.; 773-772-2727
Best curry fries: Wilde Bar & Restaurant, 3130 N. Broadway; 773-244-0404
Best fries topped with another food: Butter-garlic fries at Lemon Tree, 1035 State St., Lemont; 630-257-7177
Best fries in a surprising place: Beer-battered fries at the Brookfield Zoo, 3300 Golf Rd., Brookfield; 708-485-2200
Best truffle fries: MK, 868 N. Franklin St.; 312-482-9179
Best fries still cooked in beef tallow: Top Notch, 2116 W. 95th St.; 773-445-7218
— Christopher Borrelli
– – –
It’s politics as usual with these votes
Within a day or two of asking readers to write in and testify to the glory of their favorite Chicago-area french fry, we quickly realized the inherent mistake with such a broad and generous democratic approach — the trouble is that we asked in Chicago. Voting, and voting frequently, has quite the entertaining history here.
So, although we cannot be certain we received votes from dead readers, we are fairly certain a few of the restaurants that received multiple votes were benefactors of write-in campaigns.
Because this wasn’t a popularity contest, in the interest of a level playing field, those write-in nominees were shifted to a separate pile — but not forgotten.
And so, here they are, the fries that received a suspiciously disproportionate amount of reader love:
Epic Burger (517 S. State St.; 312-913-1373). Votes: 10. We tried them and … crispy, super fresh for a fried spud.
Max’s Italian Beef (5754 N. Western Ave.; 773-989-8200). Votes: 14. We tried them and … forgot Max was Chicago’s home of the infamous “ghetto fries,” topped with layers of gravy and cheddar cheese and diced onion. That said, we like them as bare as the day they were born — wider than an average fry, a bit softer than we prefer, but surprisingly sturdy for a big guy.
Meatheads (2555 W. 75th St., Naperville; 630-355-6066). Votes: 68. We tried them and … way too salty, a little reminiscent of the pale, undercooked In-N-Out Burger fries, though not quite as soggy.
Naha (500 N. Clark St.; 312-321-6242). Votes: 14. We tried them and … we want more. Don’t let the flecks of parsley throw you, or those white tablecloths. These are unpretentious, dark and crisp at the ends with just enough cream at the trunk.
— Christopher Borrelli
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cborrelli@tribune.com
